


Chambermaid

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Master/Servant?, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 16:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8540752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Finrod doesn’t get to clean up Caranthir’s mess.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Morifinwë ignores the first knock, like he always does, because it can’t be anyone important—he recognizes the way his father would and his infuriating brothers never bother with that warning. He stays sprawled out along his couch across the room, a book open in his lap, and continues reading. Then the knock comes again, and someone calls, muffled through the wood: _“I have come to clean your quarters, my lord.”_

Morifinwë snorts to himself, ready to ignore that too, but then pauses—he might recognize that voice.

Partially out of curiosity and partially because the book’s tale is more boring than Nelyo lead him to believe, he retires it to the table. Then he comes over and twists the handle, opening the door only a crack, and peers beyond.

Findaráto gives him a smile no less dazzling then ever and shoves the door wide open. Before Morifinwë can protest, his cousin’s slipped past him, golden hair quickly disappearing into the private sanctum of his chambers. At first, Morifinwë doesn’t know what to say. He has a number of questions and a healthy streak of irritation at Findaráto simply inviting himself inside.

But Morifinwë’s greatest wonder is to Findaráto’s wardrobe. He’s clothed like the servant he addressed Morifinwë as. The short robes, barely enough to cover Findaráto’s strong thighs, are meant to be less cumbersome when one is darting about a lord’s chambers in search of dust. Nor is there much fabric for that dust to cling to. The collar’s parted in a sensuous line down Findaráto’s chest, displaying a clean expanse of creamy skin, the sash around the middle drawn tight enough to accentuate Findaráto’s slender frame. There is a duster tucked into that sash, but Morifinwë still doubts Findaráto’s truly come for that. The whole thing is wholly inappropriate for an Elven lord—not only is this outfit far beneath Findaráto’s station, but it displays far more bare skin than any noble should do in public.

Of course, they’re not really in public. Morifinwë can only hope this view is meant for him alone, and Findaráto hasn’t truly been sneaking about his home, kneeling to scrub his father’s floors and bending to serve his brother’s wishes. 

He jerks his gaze back to Findaráto’s face with considerable effort and sneers, “What in Arda have you done now?”

“Found a way to slip into these guarded halls, my Moryo,” Findaráto easily returns, his eyes twinkling with delight. Morifinwë should’ve known that even his father’s paranoid isolation couldn’t keep Findaráto from a friend. If that’s even what they are. With a playful tilt of his head and a knowing sweep of the room, Findaráto sighs, “And I do so tire of that cloud of gloom and disarray you insist on dragging with you.” 

Morifinwë just rolls his eyes. His quarters are nothing compared to the twins’ rooms. He has a few bits of armour scattered around, clothes that should be in drawers instead on the floor, and plenty of his brothers’ crafts carelessly discarded about, but it’s hardly chaos. He can find what he needs. Findaráto strolls over to the plate overturned underneath the reading desk—Morifinwë had forgotten he’d thrown it there after a maddening sword practice with Tyelko. Findaráto lifts the silver dish in his delicate fingers and clucks his tongue in disapproval, then sets it gingerly atop the nearest table. 

An accompanying goblet rests against the foot of the bookshelf, having rolled there from its initial landing site. This is where Findaráto drifts to next, and this time he bends only by the arch of his spine, his legs kept straight and his rear facing Morifinwë. Morifinwë had thought of either tossing Findaráto out or steadfast ignoring such ridiculous games, but now, watching the thin skirt right up Findaráto’s taut ass, Morifinwë is forced to reconsider. There’s a split second where Findaráto is frozen in place, the ends of his long hair sliding off his curved back to brush the floor, his thighs tense with holding that position, and the bottom of his ass cheeks just barely visible beneath the rope’s hem. Morifinwë gets a glimpse of the silken material underneath, something Morifinwë usually has to work to see—Findaráto, despite his naive smiles and absurd optimism, is as talented a warrior as any, and usually makes Morifinwë have to fight and chase and strip him for such lewd promises. Now Morifinwë watches him choose to linger near the lower shelf, fastidiously straightening out the lopsided row of books, rather than straightening properly.

Which means Morifinwë has all the longer to stare and hunger, made worse by Findaráto drawling without turning to look, “How crookedly you’ve put these away—you really are an animal, my lord.” So they really are going to play that game, then. Morifinwë’s fingers ball into fists at his sides, sharp nails digging into his palm with the effort of holding himself back—he’s never minded holding _power_ over others, even if he doesn’t find ‘roleplay’ nearly as amusing as his partner. 

Findaráto finally lifts, but only a fraction, so that he can fix the second shelf: equally as messy as the first. “Such a marvel these are,” Findaráto sighs. He caresses each volume he touches with a clear sense of admiration. “...How can you bear to store them upside down, my lord?”

Morifinwë grunts. It’s a marvel he puts them away at all. Findaráto pushes the last volume flush against the shelf, and Morifinwë can’t take it any longer—this is a stupid game, but Findaráto is _beautiful_ , and he stands alone in Morifinwë’s chambers like a shimmering Maia barely able to contain their glory. Morifinwë flies forward, stomps up to Findaráto’s back, and grabs a chunk satin-soft hair. He wrenches Findaráto up by it, drinking in the pained cry it earns him. He pulls Findaráto flush against him and thrusts his hips forward, slamming and pinning Findaráto to the bookshelf. Findaráto flinches, but Morifinwë doesn’t loosen—he knows Findaráto can take it. Findaráto can take anything. Morifinwë bends his head back, forcing his long neck to arch as he’s draped over Morifinwë’s shoulder. This lets Morifinwë eye his pretty face and nip at the elegant point of his ear, before hissing into it, “You presume to march into your lord’s chambers without summons?”

Findaráto lets out a laboured breath and rasps in Morifinwë’s cruel grip, “Will you not allow me to clean for you now, my lord?” He adjusts his position slightly, as though made physically uncomfortable by the large bulge pressed hard against him. His hands still rest on the shelf, trying to keep the wooden slats from digging too fiercely into his unblemished skin. 

Morifinwë just grinds into his ripe backside for emphases and growls, “No, I will not.”

Findaráto makes a whimper of disappointment and squirms in Morifinwë’s grasp. “Why, my lord? I would serve you—”

Morifinwë cuts him off in snarling, “Because you will now attend to my other needs.” Findaráto’s breath hitches, eyes flashing. Morifinwë opens his mouth, ready to dig his teeth into Findaráto’s shoulder and suck in a crude red mark.

But Findaráto elbows him swiftly in the side, and Morifinwë grunts in surprise and pain and stumbles back, hands slipping from Findaráto’s hair.

With the skill only a trained warrior could have, Findaráto spins on the spot and sidesteps Morifinwë’s retaliation, moving out of range, only to beckon Morifinwë back in with an eager look and an inviting lick of his perfect lips. Grinning like a kitten full of milk, Findaráto purrs, “Please, my lord; I would not sully your living chambers. Such filth belongs only in a bed.” Then he winks and, despite his words, tugs his sash right off his waist and lets it drop to the floor.

His robes fall smoothly open. Morifinwë is granted only a second to stare.

Then Findaráto turns and walks gracefully towards Morifinwë’s bed chambers, and Morifinwë surges to life in a furious race to follow.


End file.
